my deepest apologies,” he muttered, thrusting the wrapped cluster of twelve yellow roses into her hands. They were fresh and beautiful, enhanced with ferns and beaded with morning dew.
“You’re shameless, Quint Seavers!” Annie hissed.
“Yes, I know. Will you forgive me for last night?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “Last night never happened. Agreed?”
His dimples deepened irresistibly. “Agreed. And just to seal the bargain I have an added enticement.” He reached into his vest and drew out a plain white envelope. “Two tickets for the opera tomorrow night. For you and me. Chao’s already agreed to stay here with Clara.”
“The Metropolitan Opera?” Annie had seen the posters on the street. The fabled New York company was on tour and playing in San Francisco this week. She’d always dreamed of seeing an opera. But protests were already flocking into her head like black crows. The tickets must have cost Quint a small fortune. And how could she go when she had nothing appropriate to wear?
“Caruso will be here on the seventeenth for their production of Carmen,” Quint said. “That show’s been sold out for weeks. But before he arrives, they’ll be performing something called The Queen of Sheba. That one’s almost sold out, too, but I called in some favors and got us two of the last box seats.” He frowned, noticing her hesitation. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s a wonderful gesture, Quint. But I know the opera will be a big society event. How can I sit in a box, surrounded by all those elegant women with their jewels and their fancy gowns? You might fit right in, but I don’t even own an evening dress.”
“Then wear whatever you have. You’ll look fine.”
Fine. Annie sighed. She’d hoped for a little commiseration, or even a compliment, however insincere. But men just didn’t understand. She would go, certainly. This might be her one lifetime chance to see an opera. But she would feel like a leghorn chicken dropped into a pen full of glittering peacocks.
Chao had come with vases for the flowers. Clara handed him her little bouquet, then ran to Quint to tug at his coat. “Can we go now? I want to ride in the trolley car!”
Quint rumpled her curls. “We’ll go when your aunt Annie says she’s ready.”
“I’ll just get our straw hats and my reticule,” Annie said. “Will we need coats?”
“The day’s warming, but the breeze off the water can be brisk. Light jackets should do you fine.”
Surrendering the roses to Chao, Annie hurried into the guest room to get the things she’d left on the bed. An image glimpsed in the dresser mirror showed a young woman simply dressed in a highnecked white blouse and khaki walking skirt, her cinched waist marked by a wide leather belt. Her hair was pulled back and twisted into a practical bun that would hold up in a stiff breeze. Her only adornments were tiny pearl ear studs and a simple brooch at her throat.
Sensible, practical Annie. Well, she was who she was. But just once it would be nice to play Cinderella and go to the ball with the handsome prince. Maybe then she could be content with the life that awaited her back in Dutchman’s Creek.
“Come on, Aunt Annie, we’re ready to go!” Clara bounded into the room to tug at her skirt. Annie fixed the straw hat on her niece’s head, tying the strings under her chin. Then she secured her own hat with a pin, picked up her reticule and the jackets, and let Clara lead her back to the entry where Quint stood waiting. The day’s grand adventure was about to begin.
They swung aboard the crowded trolley and managed to find a seat. As the car swayed along the rails, Quint cast furtive glances at Annie. Her color was high, her face glowing. Back in Colorado, she’d been nothing more than Hannah’s kid sister. He’d scarcely given her a second look. Now, with every minute they spent together, the attraction grew more compelling.
They’d agreed to forget last night’s searing kiss. But for Quint that was easier said than done. In the past twelve hours, he’d relived that kiss a hundred times—not just the kiss, but everything beyond. He’d imagined sliding the robe off her shoulders and stroking the satiny skin beneath, then easing down to cup the ripe moons of her breasts in his hands and kiss the nipples into swollen nubs; then…
But Lord, what was he thinking? Here he was, seated on a trolley with two innocent females, one a precious child, the other a lady who would skewer him with her hatpin if she knew what was going on in his mind. Their transfer stop on Fulton was coming up in a few blocks, and if he didn’t keep a sharp eye out they’d end up at the fish market instead of the park.
His three hours at work that morning had been frustrating. There’d been no mention of Virginia Poole in any of the papers. That meant he couldn’t afford to show his hand by looking into her death himself. His knowledge of the murder and his presence at the scene would make him a prime suspect, ripe for framing. Rutledge could have paid the police to keep quiet for that very reason. The poor woman’s body was probably on the bottom of the bay by now, her flat cleared out and ready to let.
But what had happened to the letter? In all likelihood it was lost. But as long as Rutledge suspected otherwise, there might be a chance of trapping him.
Quint’s new column would appear on page two of this morning’s Chronicle. He’d written it yesterday, in the hope that it might persuade Rutledge to replace the missing funds before certain knowledge came to light. The implication was pure bluff, but Rutledge didn’t know that. Maybe, just maybe, the man would rise to the bait.
Quint had weighed the wisdom of showing the column to Annie. But in the spirit of enjoying the day, he’d decided against it. She’d be bound to worry and would surely lecture him about the risk. Then he would have to argue with her, and the whole outing could be spoiled.
That Annie cared enough to fret over him was something to be pondered. But he had a dangerous task to complete. This was no time for more distractions.
At Fulton Street they caught the trolley that would take them to Golden Gate Park—a vast wonderland of woods, lawns, gardens and cultural amusements, rivaled only by the great parks of New York and Chicago. Laid out in the 1870s on a stretch of barren dunes, it had become the pride of San Francisco. Today the sky was glorious, and Clara was in high spirits. She laughed and chattered all the way, her brown eyes sparkling like sunlit sarsaparilla. He’d be a fool to let his worries keep him from enjoying her, Quint reminded himself. Time passed swiftly. Little girls grew up. And this precious day would never come again.
He swung his daughter off the crowded trolley, and they strolled through the gateway of the park. Quint held Clara’s left hand, Annie her right. Anyone watching might have taken them for a young family—father, mother and child. Quint found the notion oddly comfortable. But then, Annie was a comfortable sort of woman—except when she was wrapped in his cashmere robe, her skin dewy with moisture, her gray eyes lit with reflected flame. Last night the sight of her, the scent and feel of her in his arms had driven him wild. Even today, with Clara as a chaperone, it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to touch her waist, her shoulder, her hair.
“I want to see the ocean!” Clara tugged at his hand. “Where is it?”
“The ocean’s way at the other end of the park,” Quint said. “If we go there first, we’ll be too tired for other things. But we’ll work our way in that direction and see it before we go
